Ten days in May

Arden Grant, our New Zealander handyman, has been here of late, most recently fixing kerb stones against the front lawn, and - as in my photograph - repinning the Rambling Rector to the side wall: it collapsed a while ago, and has grown too top heavy just to tie back to the original wires. (That's the trouble with Rambling Rector: I must be less kind when pruning this Autumn.) To illustrate the breadth of Arden's talents, he's also - last week - made over Leo's old room, replacing the basin in a new position, fitting a shelf alongside it and blanking off one of the lights above, taken away the built-in cupboard, inserted a new skirting board, repapered the wall behind where the cupboard was and painted the room's walls and ceilings - oh, and fitted a new piece of carpet to match the existing. A man for all seasons. And it's been hot, working inside: this last part of May has seen us basking in something of a heatwave, but it is all about to change - just in time for the Jubilee weekend of course.

I can't remember what the weather was like at this time 50 years ago, but I do recall the première of Britten's War Requiem taking place on my birthday in the new Coventry Cathedral. I was working as a guide at Charlecote Park: the Curator, Dick Routh, had a ticket. And last night it was performed there again, by the same orchestra, the CBSO, under its brilliant conductor Andris Nelsons. I Listened Again, and was bowled over.

"Rigoletto"

Our dynamic New Zealander handyman, Arden, descended upon us early this morning, to dismantle a built-in cupboard. In the clearing out process, I came across some programmes dating back to the year I started living in London. I had a new love in my life then, opera, and the above evidences my first visit to see Verdi's Rigoletto. That was its 357th performance at the Royal Opera House, with Edward Downes at the helm of Zeffirelli's sumptuous production. American baritone, Cornell MacNeil sang the jester, with the lovely Reri Grist as his daughter. Though I can't give any critical analysis of that performance, the opera is one I have come to cherish through a number of subsequent listenings. I have a 1960 version on CD, with Bastianini, Scotto - and Alfredo Kraus: the only time I saw him was as the Duke at Covent Garden in February 1974: I remember standing at the back of the Stalls Circle for what was a sensational individual performance. Notwithstanding this warm memory, I have to rate as my top choice the 1956 Tullio Serafin recording, which I also have, with Gobbi, Callas and di Stefano.

Naturally, therefore, I was eager to catch the relay from the Opera House of its 497th performance tonight, sitting in the comfort of Cheltenham Cineworld. Nor I was I disappointed although, dynamically, John Eliot Gardiner's rendition nowhere approaches Serafin's, save possibly in the great quartet. This was - as ever for me - the highlight. David McVicar's production leaves little to the imagination. (Do we need full frontal male nudity? And how anyway do you carry out a rape without an erection?) Dimitri Platanias looks terrific in the name part, acts and sings superbly: his only disadvantage is being encumbered with a pair of distracting Lekis - and not being Tito Gobbi. Ekaterina Siurina's Gilda was likewise a great joy to hear; and Christine Rice's portrayal of the Act III mezzo role was as outstanding as we've come to expect from her.

Palais des poules

A delightful New Zealander has been at work here today, in the late Summer sunshine. Arden Grant (for it is he) impressed us with his handling of our bee drama a couple of months ago, so Caroline asked him back to improve the quality of life for herself and her beloved chickens, called Bridget and, yes, Duck (so christened by Ida, aged 3). Query: as a result, are our delicious eggs now going to be the most expensive on record?